


a bookshelf full of flaming pages.

by rockygetsrolling



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Gotham Central
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Comic Book Science, Dubious And Dangerous Means Of Survival and Revival, Gen, Hallucinations, Kidnapping, Multi, SCPs - Freeform, TW: Discussions of Self-Harm Scars, TW: Explosions, TW: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, TW: Near Death Experiences, TW: Panic Attacks, TW: Poisoning, TW: Self-Induced Vomiting, Whumptober 2019, do not try this at home, tw: character death, tw: child abuse, tw: child neglect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-11-09 06:42:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20849174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockygetsrolling/pseuds/rockygetsrolling
Summary: My Whumptober collection for 2019.AKA: How Long Will It Take For Rocky To Completely Lose Her Shit?





	1. day one: shaky hands

Jim wakes from his nightmare with a silent start. He doesn’t cry out, doesn’t sit bolt upright, just a single sharp jerk and the lightest gasp. 

He’s awake.

He swallows. His hands are shaking.

Unsteadily, he climbs out of bed, his knees trembling, his mouth dry, his eyes tired against the dark of his room--

_how many times am i going to have to drive it through your thick, stupid skull?_

Jim clamps a hand over his mouth. Or tries to; his hands won’t stay in place. He swallows his whimpers down, whimpers that are so rarely released anymore. Why would they be? The man who made him feel such pain is gone forever.

_you think you’re better than the rest of this family?! you stupid, useless thing!_

Memories of a stinging belt across his back, a bellowing fist into his chest; memories of blood in his mouth and pointless, stupid hopefulness that the assault would end sooner rather than later; memories of a wasted childhood and scars that he didn’t get from his beatings--

No.

“Stop it,” he mouths against his palm. “Stop it, he’s not here, he can’t hurt you anymore. You’re okay.”

“James?”

He jumps, and his hands shake harder.

Sarah slides her hands into his and lock down hard, the familiar sensation at once grounding and a little bit terrifying. He’s not quite back from the void that swallows his mind every now and then.

“Hey, hey,” Sarah says, her chest pressed to his back, her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder. “Hey, doll. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

Jim swallows hard, breathes in deep, closes his eyes--

_Big mistake._

He opens them and leans forward, trying not to vomit at the sharp scratch of a flashback clawing at his eyelids. Sarah lets go of his hands and pulls his hair back--he’s started to grow it out again--like she’s ready for that possibility. 

“Breathe, hon,” she soothes, a hand coming to rest on his back, flat and soft and warm like their blankets. “Breathe, sweetie. You’re alright.”

Jim gasps. “Fuck,” he croaks, his hands combing through his hair. Holy fuck, they’re still shaking. “Fuck, I’m sorry--”

“Don’t you dare be sorry.” Her reply is soft and sweet. “This is normal. It’s okay.” There’s a kiss pressed against his neck. “It’s okay.”

He can feel the scars tucked high against his sides throbbing, his head is rushing; he knows he’s safe, he truly does, but every part of him is still in fight or flight.

“You’re okay,” Sarah chants, slowly, softly. It’s a balm to the fire of terror that’s ripping through him.

His hands are still shaking.

“You’re okay.”


	2. day two: explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> poetic justice.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Bruce growls, trying his best to unhook the wires from the detonator. “Come on, come on, you stupid thing, just--”

The central device beeps ominously.

“That,” Nightwing says through the com in his ear, “that, my guy, does not sound good.”

“It’s not,” Bruce says, already backpedalling out. He’s the last one here, at this point he’s just trying to avoid more pointless property damage. “Wing, get Hood and Batgirl C to the Bowery--”

He’s cut short when his feet are swept out from underneath him, and suddenly all he knows is heat and hurt and a searing roar that makes him feel sick to his stomach. He lands on his knees, sucks in one breath before the secondary blast shoots him end over end against the wall, and he has little choice but to grab the edge of his cape and hope and pray for the best--

_Shrapnel, heat, darkness…_

Silence.

Sweet, blessed silence.

=

“B!”

Jason shoves another hunk of exploded wall away, wincing as it crashes and shatters on another mound of concrete. 

“B! Look, I know you’re still pissed about our fight, but there’s really no mature reason to keep playing dead, it’s actually kind of an inconvenience--”

He cuts himself off, because he sees the worst possible thing he could see.

A scrap of tattered black cape, peeking out from the shards of rubble.

“No,” he says softly, breaking into a sprint towards it, falling to his knees and digging with his hands like the world will end if he doesn’t. Maybe it will, in fact he’s pretty sure it will.

“No no no no no,” he says over and over, handfuls flying every which way as he digs deeper. “Come on, B, come on, don’t do this to me, don’t leave me behind again, come on, come on--”

His hands graze Kevlar, and he finds the rest of the arm and latches on. 

“B!” It’s a desperate cry now, harsh and terrified. “B, can you hear me?”

No answer.

“Alright, okay, I can work with that.” He starts digging again, reaching down deep and shoving whole mounds away with his shoulders. “B, come on, man, you gotta wake up, we gotta get you home, Dev is gonna have a fit if you come into the cave like this--”

There, he’s uncovered, and Jason slides his arms under Bruce’s and pulls him out. When he sets him down, he feels something settling in his skin.

Something’s wrong.

“B?” He reaches under the cowl and feels for a pulse.

Nothing.

“Okay, wrong spot. Other side.” He tries again.

Still nothing. 

Jason feels his body seize up and stiffen, the sign of an incoming panic attack. “No,” he manages, “no, no, no, no, no, _no_, come on, B, wake up, you--you have to wake up, come on, man, you--” he stops when a sob claws at his throat, ,and he shoves it down and away. “Come _on_, wake up. Wake _up_, dad. Please--”

Desperation slams into him, and he finds the latches for the chest armor and snaps them deftly. No one else is dying in this family, not if he can help it. 

“Fuck you, you are _not_ dying here tonight. You understand me?” He pulls the armor back and peels of his gloves, pulls out a cord of copper wiring from his belt. “Fuck you, fuck you, _fuck you_, B, I am not letting you die. Don’t even think about it.”

He tapes the copper wire to his chest taser, then to his gloves. It’s the closest thing to an AED he’s got. “Please, God, please let this work--”

The taser charges, and Jason prays…

Bruce’s chest jumps, and Jason pulls his gloves away and starts CPR. 

“Bruce, come on, wake up. You slimy, stupid son of a bitch, wake up--”

“Hood?!”

Jim. Oh, thank God, it’s Jim.

“Get the EMTs!” It’s an order, and Jim calls it over his shoulder with the matching desperation of his companion. 

“Come on, B,” Jason croaks, ignoring the tears gathering at the base of his mask. “Come on, B. You’re gonna be okay.” 

No answer, but when Jason feels for a pulse, a miracle strikes.

He finds one.


	3. day three: delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when will audrey take her boy away from me? i dunno and i hope she doesn't ever.  
dev belongs to the lovely miss audreycritter

“How’s Dev?”

Tim looks up from his Switch at Jim, who’s no longer in his work clothes; a worn pair of jeans, fuzzy Wonder Woman socks, and a Red Robin T-shirt are a cooler look anyways.

“So far he’s been quiet. The fear gas hasn’t worked its magic yet.”

“Emphasis on yet,” Jim harrumphs as he stretches himself out across the couch, letting his head fall into Tim’s lap. A small display of intimacy based on years of patience and trust. “What’re you playing?”

Tim answers, because if they talk about Dev more, they’ll both have some form of a small breakdown. “Smash Bros Ultimate. I’m playing as skelly boy, in honor of spooky month.”

Jim is quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, _what_ the fuck did you just say?”

“Gen-Z speak.”

“Ah.”

“Hey, I need to ask, who’s the cooler--?”

A howl cuts them short: _“NO!”_

Jim is up first, shooting to his feet and down the hall like a devil shot from hell. Tim is right behind him, his Switch left abandoned on the couch. 

“Dev?!” Tim yells as Jim reaches Dev’s door, only to watch Jim catch the room’s only resident as he flies from the dark and directly into Jim’s arms. There’s a wild look in his eye, there’s sweat on his brow, and he looks far too sick to even be standing. 

“Devvie, Devvie,” Jim says, taking Dev’s face in his hands and turning him so they look into each other’s eyes. “Dev, it’s alright, you’re safe, you’re--”

“I know _I’m_ fine!” Dev is shaking like a leaf, and Tim backs half a step away. Jim, the steadiest of them, doesn’t move an inch. “I don’t _care_ about me! Where’s Jason?”

“Jaybird?” Jim keeps his voice soft, the way he does for everyone with stuff like this. Tim has seen Jim talk people down from a ledge more than anyone in the family, with the exception of Alfred. “Why are you worried about Jaybird, Devvie? He’s okay.”

“He’s not, I know he’s not--” Dev chokes back a sob and grabs Jim by the arms, who then starts to hush him softly as he rants. “No, he’s not okay, Jim, he’s _hurt_, I have to find him, Zsasz hurt him, I have to save him or the skulls will find me--”

“What skulls, Devvie?”

Dev shakes his head, body carved out with fear. “_Their_ skulls. The others. The--” He stops and starts to tremble so hard, Tim’s afraid he’ll fall over. “Couldn’t save ‘em. Couldn’t save any of ‘em. They’re gone, Jim, they’re all gone--”

“They’re not gone, Dev, I know you think that right now but I promise you, everyone is okay.” Jim slides his arms around Dev’s waist and lets his lanky form sag against him, sending Tim a look that says _go find your father, and hurry._ Tim nods and hurries downstairs, through the hallways of the first floor, through the clock entrance, down into the dark--

\--and collides with his father’s chest. Hard. 

“Speedy Gonzales, is that--?” Bruce starts, but doesn’t finish.

“It’s Dev,” Tim says hurridley, “something’s wrong.”

Bruce’s face hardens, and he lets Tim guide him back upstairs and into the second-floor hallway, where Jim is now seated against the wall with Dev’s whole body curled into a ball of lanky limbs and anxiety, his arms wrapped around Jim’s waist. Jim is combing through his hair softly, whispering something in what Tim can only assume is Gaelic.

“Dev?” Bruce says.

Dev looks up at him, and his face goes slack with terror. “They’ve found me.”

“What--?”

_”The skulls_. They found me.” He shrinks away from Bruce and Tim like they’re monsters, like they’re here to attack him. “They’re gonna get me because I failed, I failed, I failed…”

He trails off, not making a move to fight or run, like he’s… _Jesus_, it’s like he’s given up. Something about that makes Tim’s skin crawl.

“Dev,” Jim says again, “Dev, you have to listen to me. I know they feel very real to you, but I promise that they are not, they cannot and will not hurt you. Not while I’m here.”

Tim swallows around the lump in his throat. “We’re not here to hurt you--”

Dev keens and shrinks into himself, and Tim feels the sting of tears out of nowhere. He knows it’s the fear gas, it’s just the fear gas, but he simply didn’t expect it to hurt so much, especially now that it’s coming from Dev.

An arm wraps around his shoulders and pulls him close to a familiar body--his father, his father, thank God--and he buries his face into Bruce’s chest as he leads him away. 

“He’ll be alright,” Bruce says thickly.

Tim casts a glance over his shoulder and makes eye contact with Dev, only to watch him shrink in again and seem to want to dissolve himself against the floor.

Tim does an about-face and puts a hand over his eyes.

He’s okay.

_Dev will be fine._


	4. day four: human shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> waylon jones is not a villain in this work. featured scp: scp-939.

“Katherine Kane, I swear to God,” Maggie yells into her com. “Kathy, you can’t do this, you can’t--”

“Love you, Mags,” Kate wheezes, and without another word she shuts down her com.

There’s no way out of this one.

She’s in the middle of the sewers under the Diamond District, bleeding from her stomach, and there’s a huge _something_ leering at her from the dark. There are no eyes shining, no ears twitching, just flared nostrils and seething teeth and a lean, spiked body and untethered rage.

She might as well be facing a firing squad. 

_[Help me!]_ A voice keens from the creature, whatever it is, a haunting screech of human contact lost forever. It’s what had lured Kate to it in the first place, and she was beginning to realize just how grave of a mistake it had been.

“Do not come after me,” she had yelled as her cycle ripped through the streets, “this thing can and will kill you.”

Everyone had protested, but Kate had insisted; she had found it feasting on what was left of a very unfortunate homeless man when it had given chase. Whatever it was had gotten ahold of her once, and it was only sheer willpower and tenacity that had saved her then.

Nothing is saving her now, and she’s pretty sure nothing can. 

_[Help meeeeee!]_ The monster crawls forward, red skin humming with what looks like fire, spiked back rustling, and Kate knows she’s done for, it’s over.

There’s no hope left.

Screaming, the beast runs and takes a flying leap, and Kate closes her eyes and braces for impact--

Water rips from the tunnel between her and the beast, and a tower of scaly skin and reptilian rage takes the hit for her.

“Waylon?!” she yells, desperate over the sudden fight that fills the tunnel.

“Stay low!” Waylon snarls, grabbing the creature by the neck and tossing it with unbelievable strength across the tunnel. There’s a crack, and several spikes fall free from its back, but it rises again, charges, leaps--

\--and its teeth bury deep into Waylon’s arm.

With a howl, he flails his arm around and douses the creature underwater, upon which steam shoots from the water’s surface and a horrified, garbled human scream just barely makes its way toward the surface.

“Stay under!” Waylon roars at the water, “stay under and burn, you putrid piece of--!”

Claws rake across Waylon’s skin, and he grunts as he casts a glance at Kate. “Can you stand?!”

“Do you think I haven’t tried yet?!”

“Try again, harder! I can handle this!” 

Kate tries to climb to her feet, tries like hell and high water are after her, and she makes it out of the chamber before Waylon shrieks, and she whips around--

\--and gets slammed to the floor, staring up into the creature’s huge, _glowing_ jaws, and she realizes that she’s going to die and won’t even get to spit in its eye because _it doesn’t have any fucking eyes, goddammit._

“Shitstain,” she growls as it rears back, hisses and rumbles and it’s gonna kill her, it’s over--

Then it’s gone, and Waylon is slamming it against every hard surface he can see, roaring like a dragon of ancient myth. The creature shrieks and writhes, but Waylon doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down until finally, finally, the last of its spikes snap and shatter, and the body goes limp as Waylon launches it across the tunnel.

It collides with the floor, lies prone, and it doesn’t move again.

Waylon is panting, his arm is covered in blood, and by God, Kate has never seen him in a worse mood. But when he turns to her, he softens the ever-so-slightest bit, and he approaches her slowly. 

“You alright?”

Kate coughs hard. “Been better.”

Waylon scoops her up in his arms as she turns her coms back on, immediately bombarded with voices and desperation and--

“Kathy?”

Kate laughs, weekly. “Hey, Mags. So, funny story. I lived.”

“Thanks to who?” Waylon rumbles.

Kate sends him a leery smile. “Thanks to you,” she says, then her vision blacks out.

=

She’ll wake up home and safe with Maggie by her side, her gut patched up and her family waiting. Waylon will be there, too, and the body of the monster will be frozen away in the Cave’s massive freezer. The question of what to do with it will remain.

But then again, so will Kate.

And so will Waylon. 

Not bad at all for a Tuesday night.


	5. day five: gunpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the final moments of no man's land in the jimdad saga; this is why joker is not present in the series itself except for slight allusions. sarah and jim are not romantically involved at this time. takes place about five years before the beginning of the jimdad saga.
> 
> tw for death of a character and for harm coming to small children (which is nonpermenant but be careful nevertheless)

“Oh, it’s the _police_!”

Sarah’s gun hand is up in an instant, and her eyes are on the only man that matters right now: the Joker, his red-stained lips pulled into an eternal grin. In his arms is a single baby, and there’s a shadow against his jacket that looks far too familiar to be a coincidence.

“Hmmmmm, I’d like to report a crime--”

He pulls the gun out slowly, surely.

“She tried to shoot me… and I dropped the baby…”

He raises the pistol slowly over his head. 

“Stop it,” Sarah growls. She’s not scared for her, only for the child, the child who will be his next victim if she’s not careful--

“Or maybe,” Joker continues, still leering at her in the relative darkness of the basement, “she rushed me, and I dropped the baby…”

He holds the child out, just barely cradled in his arm. Sarah’s anxiety spikes. If the child lands feet or bum first, there hopefully won’t be any lasting damage--

“Or maybe, I just…”

The baby drops.

Sarah gasps as the child hits the floor, thankfully on their bum, and when the Joker opens his sneering mouth to offer a reply, Sarah doesn’t give him a chance. 

She swings, and her fist knocks Joker’s gun away, and she grabs him by the collar and slams him in the face with the butt of her Glock.

Joker howls at the sharp, sudden pain, and Sarah uses his suprise to drive him out of the room, shove him out, anything she can do to get him away from those kids. The cries of the dropped child follow her, but she steels herself against her instincts to go back and comfort them.

They reach the stairwell, and Sarah shoves him to his knees and stares him down like God stared down the Devil before throwing him from Heaven’s gates. 

Joker laughs. “Mother hen, mother bear,” he sings deliriously.

Sarah raises her Glock to Joker’s forehead and she thinks: of Jason, of a tiny tombstone on a high hill no too far from Wayne Manor; of Barbara and her wheelchair and the dark circles under her eyes after too many sleepless nights; of the wreckage of Gotham, of the constant fear her people live in; of Bruce and Jim and Dick and Tim and Cass, scarred beyond words after fighting this monster one too many times.

“Mother hen, mother bear, sleep so deeply and so fair--”

“Merry Christmas,” Sarah says finally, “Merry Christmas, you piece of shit.”

She pulls the trigger.

The explosion rocks the city, rocks the stairwell, rocks Sarah to her core.

The Joker is dead. 

He lies silent and prone, the ghost of his last laugh frozen on his face. 

Her breath stutters.

Behind her, a child wails. 

Sergeant Sarah Essen drops her gun, turns around, and rushes to the infant lying felled, the Joker’s last victim.

“Shhhh, it’s okay,” she coos as she lifts them from the ground and tucks them into her coat. “It’s okay, sweetie, you’re alright. It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

At her hip, her radio crackles, one of her best friends--_oh, god, James_\--is calling her name: “Sergeant Essen! Sergeant Essen, report in! Sarah!”

Sarah fumbles her radio up, the baby still in her arms, still wailing. She tunes in to the citywide open channel--open to cops and vigilantes, that is--and announces a victory that leaves a vicious, bitter taste of hissing victory in her mouth.

“This is Sergeant Sarah Essen, Bagde Number 5371, location West Front Bank, 78 Sycamore. I’ve found the stolen children, and the Joker--”

“Wait for backup--” Bruce’s sharp snap greets her, but she cuts him short.

“Joker is out. He’s gone.”

There’s silence for a long time.

“Sarah,” Barbara says finally, her voice shaking. “Sarah, did you--?”

“It was either me, the kids, or him,” Sarah bites out, “and with odds like those I think the choice is obvious--”

“We’re not passing judgement,” Jim says, voice distant. “Just stay where you are, we’re coming.”

“Bring blankets and baby food. And diapers.”

“Got it,” Tim says. He, too, sounds awestruck.

The line goes dead, and Sarah clutches the howling infant to her chest against the bitter cold.

“It’s okay,” she says, even as tears pour down her face. “It’s okay, everything’s okay.”

_Everything’s okay._


	6. day six: dragged away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for references to sexual violence but nothing explicit whatsoever

“Spoiler!” 

Stephanie digs her hands into the rough cement, crying out as Kraken’s goons yank her a bit harder than necessary. Why do the bodyguards always do that?

“Now, Gordon,” Kraken’s voice seethes from the surrounding speakers, “let’s not be too hasty here, hm? These are human lives we’re talking about, after all.”

Across the room, Jim is struggling against the grip of a pair of armed guards. One of the lenses of his glasses is a spiderweb of cracks, there are scratches up the side of his face, and his mouth is pulled into the snarl of a fighting-mad beserker. Stephanie can’t remember seeing Jim so angry, not since.

To Stephanie’s left is a civilian; a woman about her age, tan skin and dark hair, and there’s a knife against her neck.

Jim spits on the ground and stares up into the cloudy windows high above. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

“A simple choice, nothing more,” Kraken replies. “Choose one. The other will be taken… well, who knows? That’s up to me, I suppose. Pity that I’m terrible at making decisions.”

Jim and Stephanie make eye contact, then Jim makes eye contact with the woman, whimpering and struggling and praying, praying, praying.

_Please,_ Stephanie thinks, _please, Jim, don’t let it be me. Don’t choose me. Choose her, for the love of God, choose her--_

“You know,” Kraken says finally, almost gleefully, “a friend of mine is looking for a new leading lady in his travelling sex show, and you both seem like fantastic contenders…”

_PLEASE CHOOSE HER,_ Stephanie screams over and over in her head, because she will be damned if this woman is traumatized for the rest of her life. _CHOOSE HER, JIM, CHOOSE HER, DAMMIT!_

Jim is silent, shaking, and finally he looks up.

“Spoiler.”

Stephanie’s mouth falls open, and as she’s shoved forward, she hears the civilian woman scream, a sharp, desperate noise that tears her heart open. 

“Get them out of here,” Kraken growls--_damn you, damn you to hell_\--”take them to the car.”

Stephanie watches in horror as the civilian is dragged into the shadows by the henchman, and she seethes with hatred for Jim as they, too, are dragged to an escort car. Jim doesn’t give their captors an address, just a sullen glare, and they pull away just as the other gurads take the other woman and throw her into the backseat of an armored car.

They drive for five minutes, onto an abandoned street, and Jim strikes--he launches forward and slams the driver’s head into the wheel, knocking him out almost immediately.

The passenger guard whips out a gun, but Stephanie’s ready: she grabs his wrist and bites it, and when his grip loosens she snatches the gun away and tosses it into the back row, then punches him squarely in the face. 

Jim reaches forward and slams the car to a stop with the emergency brake, then looks at her with the vehemence of an angry god.

“Get them out and tie them up,” he snarls. “Then get back in. I need you to drive.”

=

They find the other car halfway across the city, and the moment it’s in sight Jim leans out the passenger-side window, gun in hand. 

“Floor it!” 

She does, her heart in her throat as Jim aims and blows out the back tires. The car fishtails dangerously in the road before pulling over, and Stephanie does the same on the other side of the street.

“Stay here,” Jim says as he pulls back inside, reloads. 

“No,” Stephanie argues, “no, you need my help--”

“I’m wearing a bulletproof vest, which is close to nothing,” Jim barks. “This car is armored. You’ll be safe. So for the love of God, _stay here._”

“I’m not--”

“STAY HERE, DAMMIT!” Jim shouts, and Stephanie feels very small very suddenly. 

Jim’s eyes soften the slightest bit, but his mouth doesn’t. “Darlin’ just stay here, please,” he says, “I can’t risk you again.”

And without another word he climbs out of the car, gun already up, and the second the goons are out of their vehicle Jim shoots their gun hands and lunges for them, tosses the three guns away and starts to beat them to unholy hell, and Stephanie sees her opening.

She slips out of the car and dashes for the trunk of the car, yanks it open--

_Oh, thank you, God._

She’s alive, and even better, she’s unhurt.

“You came back,” she manages, terror so palpable it feels heavy.

“Of course we did,” Stpehanie says, pulling her mask up so she can see her shaky, terrified smile, “what kind of heroes would we be if we didn’t?”

=

“...her name was Stephanie, too?” Dick asks, amazed.

“It was a culture shock, to say the least.” Jim is holding an ice pack to his eye, but other than that and a few scrapes, they both made it out okay. And, thank God, so did she.

Duke laughs, and Stephanie feels angry at him for it.

“It’s not funny,” she hisses, and he stops.

“Steph, you’re all okay,” Selina says gently, “you all made it out--”

Stephanie snaps to her feet and stares Jim down with burning force. “_Fuck you_,” she shouts, “fuck you, James, for saving me and not her! _Fuck_ you!”

She turns and storms off, seething and trying not to cry, she will not cry, she _will not cry--_

A hand grabs her wrist, and she rips it away.

“Stepphie--”

She whirls around to face him, the father she wished she’d had when she was growing up, and lashes out with her fist, but he catches it, of course he does.

“Damn you, damn you, damn you,” she bites out and she tries to pull away from his unbelievably strong grip. “Damn you to hell and back, _damn_ you--”

“Stepphie,” Jim says, and he sounds utterly broken-hearted, “honey, I saved you because I needed your help to save her. You know I wouldn’t have been able to do any of that on my own. I needed you there. I _needed_ to know you were okay.”

She’s crying now, dammit, she hates that she’s crying. “She could have _died_, Jim.”

“Like you couldn’t have?”

Oh, fuck, he’s crying too.

“I don’t deserve to be saved--”

And suddenly she’s pulled against his chest, and she buries her face in his shoulder as she sobs and he buries his hand in her hair and rocks her back and forth like she’s a child again and she doesn’t know how the hell to feel about it. 

“Stephaine Amara Brown, don’t you _ever_ say that to me ever again for as long as you live. You will always be someone to save, for as long as I live, as long as you live.”

Stephanie sobs again and clutches him like a lifeline, like a drowning man reaching for air.

“I love you with all my heart, Stephanie. Don’t you ever say you’re not worthy again.”

And Stephanie lets her heartbreak be dragged away, just for a little while.


	7. day seven: isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> introducing jim gordon's older sister who i love and hate at once. super short but i really cannot write anything more. i hope you all enjoy!

“And the stars do rumble,” she sings softly, staring up into the imaginary dark of the imaginary sky far above. “And the galaxies swing, and the universe whispers of the very finest things…”

It’s an old, old song, a song her baby brother wrote his senior year of high school for his best friend, for the best friend that apparently made him realize he was bisexual. It’s a song about belonging, about finding home, about being true and real to oneself in the darker times of your life.

And she needs a song like that right now.

She’s so far away from home, and it’s her own fault.

“...If I can find a way to disappear,” she sings, opening her flask--a heavy dose of Irish coffee--and takes a swig. She wonders where her brother is now. 

“If I can find a way to disappear,” she begins again, a bit more unsteadily, “then I would search for you in the fog…”

She trails off; she can never remember the rest of the words, and she had to bet off her last CD of her brother’s high school band’s album to pay for her hotel room, with a little besides. She has close to nothing left save for her duffel bag full of clothes, her engagement ring that’s almost 30 years old, and her Harley Davidson Street 750. 

Now, she’s staring up at the popcorn-style ceiling in her hotel room, humming the melody to a song that only about seven other people on the planet earth know, and she’s so, so sad.

She’s alone in the world.

She had once been the golden child--star athlete, 4.0 GPA in college, a huge pack of friends, the woman who had it all.

And with that all was the trauma.

Looking back, she realizes just how fucked up her life was when she was growing up. Her baby brother had always seen it, had always known it, but she had always liked to wrp it up and toss the key to the bindings away. Now, however, she’s forced to confront her issues daily, because her trauma doesn’t make up for the fact that she’s not quite the person she thought that she’d become. 

She’s actually quite the opposite.

That thought makes her want to cry and laugh at the same time. She used to have such high standards for herself--a big house, a job as a doctor, a loving husband, a few kids, maybe a dog or a cat or a flourishing garden. But no, all she is is a deadbeat: she left her fiance at the altar, and she has nothing to her name but her pride and a stack of twenties in her back pocket. She can’t even hold a steady job anymore. Fuck, she doesn’t even have insurance.

The worst part is that she has no one. No one at all.

The last time she saw either of her brothers was at their father’s funeral three years prior. Roger had looked stricken and ill; Jim had been stoic and cold and silent, a pillar of strength for their mother and a true and honest breathing embodiment of rage.

Jim knew then. Jim had always known. Jim had always been too smart for his own good.

“I wanna go home,” she says out loud. “I wanna go back to how it used to be--”

Someone knocks on her hotel room door.

“Jesus Christ, now what?” With a groan, she pulls herself out of bed and to the door. Serves her right, for getting a hotel in Gotham. She couldn’t have waited until she was on the other side of the bridge, huh.

She pulls the door open, groans, and leans heavily against the door. “Listen, I dunno what you want from me but I already paid--”

She stops.

At her door is Jim, his eyes old and soft, a smile just barely curled under his mustache. He’s holding a CD case in his hand, enscribed with the words _Playful Procession at Pine Place._ Jim’s band’s first album.

Clarisse Marie Gordon looks up into her brother’s eyes and tries not to cry.

“Hey, sis.” Jim opens his arms ever-so-slighty. “Welcome home.”

And Clarisse Marie Gordon walks into her brother’s arms and squeezes and lets him squeeze her back.

_”If I can find a way to diappear, I would search for you in the fog,”_ Jim sings softly, _”and if, God forbid we lose our way, I’ll find a way to push on…_


	8. day eight: stab wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey, sorry i dropped off, school got mad busy! the next couple prompts will probably be pretty short and some might be poems, but i hope you guys like them!

“Renee?”

Renee looks up from her pillow--sweet, blessed sleep, begone forever--and into the bright yellow mask of a one Signal.

Duke.

“Good evening,” she says gruffly, shoving her hair from her eyes. “How are you?”

“A bit stabbed, but fine besides.”

Renee’s head snaps up so fast something cracks, and Duke winces. “I’m sorry, you’re _what?!_”

“A bit stabbed. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Holy shit, get inside and into the living room, NOW!”

Duke scrambles through the window and out of her bedroom, and Renee swallows hard at the sight of a butterfly knife buried into the skin of his back.

“Alfred is gonnna _kill_ me,” she whispers, and slams her window shut and scrambles out after him.

“Armor off, sit your ass on the couch,” she says as she digs through her kitchen cabinets for the two essentials of helping vigilantes on the fly: a med kid and a drop bucket, because removing knives and bullets from skin and pulling stitches through is often enough to make someone vomit.

“Hey, can you do me a favor and not tell Bruceman about this?” Duke asks from the couch; there’s a _thunk!_ as his chestplate drops to the floor. “I wasn’t supposed to be out tonight but I’m in the middle of a case--”

“Why’d you get benched?” She comes into the living room--Duke is now shirtless, and damn, that knife wound looks way worse than it had been when all of his armor had been on. 

“B was worried I’d get ripped in half. Turns out I just got ripped in my back.” 

Renee drops the bucket in front of him and nudges herself behind him, gearing up to remove the knife. “You know the drill. On the count of three.”

“Right, of course.”

Renee grabs the handle. “One, two, three, four--”

She _yanks_, and Duke squaks in agony.

“Sorry,” she says, tossing the knife over to the hardwood floor and bracing her hands against the bleeding flesh. It’s an ooze, not a spurt, and Renee thanks God for that. “Pass me the thread and surtures, would you?”

Duke starts to nod, then leans forward and vomits into the bucket.

“Nice. Seven out of ten.”

Duke groans into the bucket as Renee reaches over him and grabs the thread and surtures. “I hate this. B is gonna have my hide.”

“Not as long as Jimbo and I have any say in it.”

“Nooooo, you can’t tell Jim. He’ll kill me faster.”

“Breathe in,” Renee instructs, then swipes the would with alcohol and inserts the first stitch into Duke’s skin. “You wanna tell me exactly what happened?”

Duke hurls into the bucket again.

“Sorry. Ran out of anesthesia last week.”

“S’ fine,” Duke manages. “I’m working with Detective Snyder on that Riddler case. I got myself in too deep. There were too many and the shadows were going too fast. I didn’t have time to stop them all before I got stabbed.”

“How’s Snyder?”

“He’s fine. Capullo and Jock showed up at the last second and bailed him out. I think he got a shiner or two. Maybe.”

“Jesus.” She finally finishes the last stitch and pats his shoulder. “You gonna be alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, just need to sleep.”

“Well,” Renee says, “I have a spare bed just for you.”

Duke sends her a wild smile, despite his eyes being filled with tears. “A truly divine gift.”


	9. day fourteen: tear-stained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this will also be a separate two-shot because i love this so deeply. featuring tim being loved and jim being a good uncle.

“Another long night?”

Tim’s head snaps up so fast, he’s pretty sure something in his neck pops. Gordon is awake, sitting in his armcahir with a case file in his lap and a mug of something steaming away on the small table beside him.

Tim wonders for a moment if it’s too late to sneak back out and pretend this never happened. 

“Maybe,” he answers instead, climbing inside and shutting the window behind him. 

“Shouldn’t you be home?”

Tim shrugs as he pulls the curtains together. “Mom ‘n Dad are out of town and Bruce told me to go home--”

“He didn’t let you stay the night?”

“He was vomitting a lot when I left. I think he’s coming down with a bug and didn’t want me to get it. Alfred told me to leave, to, so that’s what I’m thinking is happening.”

Gordon grunts and hauls himself to his feet. He and Bruce are eerily similar; their joints groan and creak with the nuances of old age that are many years ahead on their paths of life, and they both wear hardened expressions with stony eyes to match, and never even mind their hands, prematurely arthritic and scarred from far too many years of fighting an uphill battle.

Tim wonders if he’ll look like them someday.

“Earth to Robin-shutle, do you copy?”

Tim blinks and looks up. “Huh?”

“Are you hungry?”

Tim starts to say no, but his stomach commits a mutiny and gargles. He hunches over it in an attempt to silence it.

“Clearly,” Gordon mutters. “Don’t even try it, kid, I’ve been harboring your kind so long I know what hungry looks like. Come on, I’ll make you some spaghetti.”

Spaghetti _does_ sound pretty good right now. “Okay.”

“Go shower and get changed, yeah? There’s stuff upstairs. I’ll get a pot ready.”

As Tim scampers up the stairs, he sends a glance back over his shoulder at his host--dressed in a red and black flannel shirt, jeans so old they’re almost white with age, and a pair of what looks like fuzzy Batman socks--and wonders for a moment how an ordinary guy like him got so thoroughly mixed in with a not-so-ordinary guy like Bruce Wayne. 

“I don’t hear that water running!”

Tim holds back a surprised giggle and darts up to the second floor.

=

“There we go,” Gordon says, setting a steaming bowl of spaghetti in front of Tim. “Go easy, it’s still hot.”

Tim stabs the noodles with his fork, twists, and blows the steam away. He’d found a set of Wonder Woman sweats in one of the drawers in the spare bedroom, and he’d taken them for his own. “Hey, do you think there’s someone out there who can heat up his food by touching it?”

“I think Flash can do that. Heat is just atoms vibrating really fast, I’d assume he can probably reheat his food by just making his hands vibrate while he’s holding it.”

Tim looks up, mildly surprised. “How did you know that?”

“I did, in fact, take physics in college.” He scrubs a hand over his face, and for the first time Tim notices the dark lines that encircle his fingers. Not rings, he realizes--no, they’re tattoos. He didn’t even think Gordon was that kind of guy.

“Hey, small-fry, you want something for dessert? I have some cookies that I picked up from Stacy’s diner.”

“I’ve never been to Stacy’s.”

Gordon casts a surprised glance at him from the cabinets. “Really.”

“Should I have gone?”

Gordon looks like he wants to say something, then stops, shakes his head, and turns back to the cabinets. 

“What?”

“No, no, don’t worry. I just forget how…” He pauses, like he’s trying to find the right word. “I forget sometimes how different you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s nothing bad, it’s just. The other two were closer to the ground. Like I was.” Gordon finds his target and pulls them down from the shelf. “They knew the language of old diners and bowling alleys.”

Tim feels some part of him sink at that. 

“It’s not your fault you don’t know,” Gordon continues, opening the plastic packaging and setting it on the counter between them. “I’m just not really used to the bougoise staging a home invasion.”

“Bruce is the bougoise.”

“Bruce is also some variation of a psychopath,” Gordon shoots back with quite a bit of bite, then looks as if he regrets it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be saying things like that about him.”

“Are you guys mad at each other?”

Gordon heaves a heavy sigh and wipes a hand over his face again. He does that a lot. “You could say that. We’re just not speaking the same language right now.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“You’e way too young to be saying that, firstly. Second, to some extent, you’re right.”

Tim plays with his noodles for a moment, unsure of how to respond to that for a while. After some moments, he tucks back into his pasta, scooping it into his mouth at close to warp speed and watching Gordon silently.

He’s staring at the far end of the kitchen, and when Tim turns his head, he sees what he’s looking at: the pictures on the wall. There’s a lot of them, most splashed with colorful moments and, Tim notices with surprise, one with Gordon standing beside Batman, Robin, Batgirl, and Nightwing in front of the Batsignal. Even more surprising is that all five of them are smiling: Robin in a gigawatt beam, Batgirl and Nightwing with matching soft smiles, Gordon and Batman in slight, almost sardonic twists of the lips.

They all look _happy_. A single frame of forever, caught by sheer luck.

“I’m not good enough to be Robin, am I?”

The question leave him before he even recognizes it for what it is, and Gordon looks at him with something that looks like alarm and...heartbreak?

“Where the hell did you get an idea like that?”

“You mean aside from the old Robin uniform hanging up in that case in the Cave?”

“Tim--”

“Or how whenever Alfred or Bruce looks at me I feel like I’m being picked apart in their heads?”

“Okay, hold on--”

“Or how you look at me like I’m not even there?”

“Timothy, I’m politely asking you to stop.”

“Why should I?” Tim says, his voice not quite a snarl, but it’s certainly not pleasant. “It’s true. I’m not a good Robin. I bet you all wish that Jason was back and that I had never showed up--”

“That’s enough,” Gordon says, and it makes chills break out on Tim’s skin. Gordon sounds like a thunderstorm in the distance--angry and harsh, a vortex of energy.

“I need you to listen,” Jim says evenly, “and I need you to listen well. Jason’s death was awful for everyone. I don’t think any of us are over it. I don’t think any of us ever _will_ be over it. But you need to not underestimate your place in this cirlce--”

“But I--”

“Let me finish. You are _needed_ here. When you cornered Bruce and basically told him that you were going to be Robin, Bruce called me and told me so. He told me what you said, and you know what I told him? I said you were right. I said to him, _Batman needs a Robin_, and that was that. He didn’t argue that point. What he argued was how he ws going to keep you safe, how to keep you from…” he trails off before finding what he’s looking for, “from what happened to Jay. We both talked about it. We probably talked about it for hours.”

Tim wants to scoff and turn away, but the fact that anyone cares enough about him to talk about keeping him safe--_for hours!_\--makes his chest ache in a way he can’t describe.

“You matter to this circle. We look at you the way we do because we see _you_, and we want to keep that _you_ here with us. I know Bruce can seem snide and cold and unbelievably thickheaded but he does just about everything he does out of a desire to keep this family--to keep _you_\--safe and sound. Batman needs a Robin, but Robin needs Batman, too.”

Tim doesn’t know how to reply, so he doesn’t. He starts to look down, then flinches when a tear drops from his cheek onto the black marble countertop.

“Timothy?” Gordon asks softly.

“I’m fine,” Tim says thickly, sliding out of the chair and dropping to the floor, making a beeline for the stairs. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I just need to sleep--”

“Tim,” Gordon says, and it sounds like something lighting up, like how a fire being stoked on a December night feels in the air. “Tim, kiddo, I know this is hard for you, but I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone in this. I know there’s pressure, but you don’t always have to be Robin. I think, a lot of the time, we would like it if you’d grace us with _you_.”

A sob wells up and breaks free before Tim can even realaize there’s one coming, and suddenly he’s off the ground, someone’s gonna throw him--

No. It’s Gordon. Gordon is hugging him against his body like Tim is a child who needs a parent, like a lost pet just rescued from the big bad world, and he suddenly feels very very small and very very confused.

“It’s okay,” Gordon whispers, and Tim realizes that he’s stroking his hair. What even is happening right now? “You’re alright kid, everything’s gonna be okay--”

“What are you doing?”

Gordon pulls back, his eyes full of surprise. “What do you mean, what am I doing? You’re crying? This is me comforting you.”

_This is me comforting you._ Tim takes a second to process that. Someone cares enough about him to see his distress and...want to stop it? 

For whatever reason, that tears him in half faster than anything in the world ever could. The sobs that he’d been holding in rip free so fast that it physically hurts, and his face is buried in Gordon’s shoulder and the other man carries him through his home, as he sits down in that old, worn leather armchair and holds him against his chest so snugly Tim feels like he’s been molded to fit against him.

“Let it out,” Gordon is saying, and he’s still combing through his hair, little by little. “Take it easy. You’re safe. You’re safe here.”

It takes a while for Tim to calm down, and he feels like he’d been invadind Gordon’s personal space for way too long even before then, but Gordon is relaxed and soft under him--_the way a dad should feel_\--and Tim wants to bury himself in the worn old flannel and the sharp scent of Gordon’s aftershave.

“Kiddo.”

“Yeah?”

“Every time I see you, your parents are gone. What’s going on there?”

Tim sniffles and shrugs. “They’re just never around. When I was young I used to have nannies and babysitters, but then I learned how to use a stove without burning myself and my parents started leaving for longer and longer times. They’re pretty much never home now.”

Gordon is silent and still.

“Tim,” he says finally, “when’s the last time they were home for more than a few days?”

Tim has to think about that. “I dunno. I think two months ago. They stayed for a week before peacin’ out, I think.”

“Holy shit,” Gordon says softly.

“It’s okay. I’m used to it. I’m very independent now, which is good.”

“You shouldn’t _have_ to be independent.” Gordon gently pushes Tim back and wipes at his tear-stained cheeks with his thumbs. Old and war-roughened, like Bruce’s. “It’s great when kids your age are independent, but not like this.”

“Hey, in my defense, I can make a mean mac and cheese bake.”

Gordon’s face goes soft and slack in a way Tim has never seen _anyone’s_ face go soft and slack before. Damn, he’s making all kinds of discoveries tonight. 

“Kid.” He stops for a second, shakes his head. “Kid, that’s not right. It’s all sorts of fucked up.”

“It’s okay--”

“No, it’s not. You didn’t even know I was comforting you. I had to tell you. _I had to tell you I was comforting you._ Doesn’t that scare you?”

“I guess I just never really thought about it.”

Gordon sighs long and low. “Kid, what you need is some sleep--”

Tim cuts him off by slumping forward onto Gordon’s chest. He wheezes in surprise, but doens’t protest. 

“Can you stay with me?” It feels childish to ask for company, he’s fourteen, he’s okay, but it feels so _nice_ to be so close to someone who cares.

Gordon wraps his arms aorund him and leans his cheek into his hair. “Yeah, kiddo. You wanna stay down here or go upstairs? I can warm up those cookies for you if you want.”

“Can we stay here?”

“Yeah, of course.” Jim wraps a hand into his hair, and wow, that feels nice. “You ever get sung lullabies?”

“When I was like, four. Maybe.”

Gordon is quiet for a moment before softly offering his voice. Tim is surprised--he never really thought of Gordon as a guy with actual talents outside of being a fantastic detective--but the voice is soothing and homey, and although he can’t understand a word of what he’s singing, Tim lets himself melt into the rolling tenor of his companion as the night presses in on the walls outside.

_“Seoithín, seo hó, mo stór é, mo leanbh_  
_Mo sheoid gan cealg, mo chuid gan tsaoil mhór_  
_Seothín seo ho, nach mór é an taitneamh_  
_Mo stóirín na leaba, na chodladh gan brón…”_

“I didn’t know you spoke Ewokese,” Tim cracks, and Gordon laughs. That’s another one for the books.

Gordon--is it okay to call him Jim now?--starts to sing again, and Tim lets himself fall away into love, warmth, and the sweetest slumber. 

It’s been a long time since he’s had any of that.


	10. day fifteen: scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: this chapter contains descriptions and discussions of self-harm scars, but there is no actual self-harming taking place in the fic. if you are triggered by stuff like this, please skip this chapter; the very last thing i want is for anyone to be triggered by this. if you do choose to read, proceed with caution, and i hope you enjoy!

Tim stretches his arms over his head and grunts when his back cracks in a few places.

“Nice one,” Jim says from across the ring. They haven’t sparred in a very long time, and Jim’s been looking forward to this. 

“Not as nice as the one I’m gonna give you,” Tim replies, popping to his feet and bouncing a few times and he settles his fists into a resting stance. “You ready to eat the mat?”

“As ready as you are to get ropesting.”

“Not in this lifetime.”

Boxing is one of Jim’s favorite fighting styles, purely because of its raw, unhinged nature. Sure, judo and aikido are cool for skill and precision, but boxing is a display of force, and it’s the kind of thing where your honor isn’t at stake; you can still crack a joke with your opponent if you feel the need to.

Sometimes he almost feels bad about boxing with Tim, because Tim is small and skinny and light as hell--nowhere near the shit brickhouse figures of Jason or Bruce--but the kid is vicious, and everyone knows it. 

So they go at each other, fists up, covered by thick gloves and tape, talking smack through their mouthguards and laughing and bumping gloves when they land the right kind of hit. It’s fun, in the way that other styles can’t always be, in the way that this is likely what the street criminals know and it’s always fun to piss off a street criminal.

At the end of the day, there’s no winner, just the two of them spread out on their backs on the mat on the cave’s lower level. It’s always cool down here, even in the midst of August, and Jim likes the audience of the bats hanging from the stalactites high above them.

“Penis,” Tim whispers, because of course he does.

“Correct,” Jim answers, and Tim cackles so loud and hard Jim is scared his lungs will burst. “Holy shit, kiddo, go easy.”

“Hey,” Tim says when he finally calms down, poking Jim in the ribs, “teach me to say something in Ewokese.”

Jim rolls his eyes, but complies. “_Labhraíonn tú mar pholaiteoir éadrom._”

“_Labhraíonn tú mar pholaiteoir éadrom._ What the hell does that mean?”

“You talk like a shitty politician.”

“Oooooooooh, that’s a good one. I’m gonna use that.”

“Don’t wear it out.” Jim sits up heavily and pulls his shirt up to wipe his face. “I swear to God, you kids are killing me with all this--”

“Hey, hold up,” Tim cuts in, sitting bolt upright and staring at Jim’s sides.

“What?”

Tim looks up at him, at once horrified and distressed. “Dude.”

“What?”

Then he remembers.

“Oh, right. Those.” Jim pulls his shirt back down, using the back of his arm instead; for half a second, he worries that his ink will come off on his forehead. Doesn’t matter that he’s had his tattoos for years, the thought still pops into his head every now and then.

“Jim,” Tim whispers. “Jim, what the hell.”

“Listen, I don’t want you worrying, alright? It was a while ago--”

“How long is a while ago? You didn’t have those last year.”

“Timothy--”

“What happened?”

“Like I said, it was a while ago, I don’t want you worrying--”

“_What. Happened._”

The intensity of Tim’s distress scares Jim, probably because Jim would be just as scared if he found out that someone else was doing what he had done. He’d thought he’d disguised the scars well enough, enough that no one would notice them, but he worked with a family of detectives. They were bound to figure it out sooner or later.

He just wishes it hadn’t been Tim first.

“It was after No Man’s Land,” Jim says finally. “And just after Jason came back. I felt stuck. Like I wasn’t moving forward. And no matter what I tried, nothing seemed to be working. So I…” He trails off, one of his hands unconsciously massaging the skin under his left armpit. “I did something stupid. But I’m better now. I promise. I got back on my meds when Gotham started shipping them back in. I’m okay.”

Tim is staring at him, looking utterly lost and utterly heartbroken. Jim wants to grab him and squeeze him like a rag doll, because he _hates_ that look on Tim’s face.

“How did you stop?”

Jim’s head snaps up, something thick and sharp embedded in his throat. “What?”

“How do you stop? What does it take?”

Tears spill over before Jim knows what’s happening. “Timothy, tell me you’re not. Tell me you’re asking for a friend. For the love of God, _please_ tell me you’re not.”

Tim looks away.

“Oh my God,” Jim croaks, and it feels like a knife in his back. “Oh my _God_, Tim.”

“I’ve _tried_ to stop,” Tim says, voice devoid of emotion. “I just don’t know how.”

Jim hesitates for a moment, trying to find the best way to navigate this. “Where are you hurting yourself?”

Tim looks up at him, then unwraps the tape on his wrists. Jim swallows around a sob—they’re not cut scars, they’re angry red and shallow and swollen like no tomorrow. 

“Your _nails?_ Your _nails,_ Timothy?”

“They heal fast. No one notices them.”

Jim wants to cry. “Tim. Tim, buddy.”

Tim looks away. “I knew this would disappoint you. That’s why I never told you--”

“Oh God, you think I’m disappointed?” Jim’s voice breaks, and he scoots forward to take Tim’s face in his hands. There are tears coursing down his face now, freely and painfully. “Jesus, no. Tim, holy shit.”

“What do you mean, you’re not disappointed? Isn’t this the part where you yell at me and tell me--”

“No, this is the part where I tell you that I’m sorry,” Jim presses a kiss to Tim’s forehead, “and ask you what I can do to help you make this easier.”

“Why do you care? I’m not even Robin anymore.”

“Because you’re one of my kids,” Jim manages, “and I love you. I’m so sorry I never realized how much pain you were in. Please, just let me help you through this.”

Tim doesn’t move for a second, then slumps forward into Jim’s arms, buries his face in his chest, and sobs like the world is coming to an end. Jim wraps him up in his arms and presses his face into Tim’s hair, kissing it and rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder-blades.

“I’m sorry,” Tim wails, and Jim has to swallow his own sobs. 

“Oh, God, kiddo, you have nothing to be sorry for.” He pulls him back to kiss his forehead one more time. “Will you let me help you get better?”

Tim gulps air harshly and nods. “Promise?”

“With all I have in me.” Jim pulls them back together and lets Tim fold himself tight, the way he used to when he was fourteen and scared and so, so unsure.

“I love you,” Jim says. “I never want you to go through something like this alone again. You ever feel like hurting yourself again, you call me. I don’t care where or when, I’ll come to you. I will be there for you. I promise.”

Tim nods and sniffles. “Jim?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you sing me something?”

Jim inhales slowly, shakily, and begins to sing as softly as he can.

Tim is still shaking against him.

God, help them.

_”I am just a poor boy,_  
_Though my story’s seldom told._  
_I have squandered my resistance_  
_For a pocketful of mumbles,_  
_Such are promises…_  
_All lies and jest,_  
_Still a man hears what he wants to hear_  
_And disregards the rest…”_

Tim presses his face into Jim’s shoulder, and they let themselves fall away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song used in this chapter: "the boxer" by simon and garfunkel.


	11. day twenty-one: laced drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i've been thinking about this prompt literally all damn month you don't even KNOW how excited i am

“He’s been targeted?” Dev whispers, clearly half-suffocating in his suit and tie. One thing that he and Jim have in common is that neither of them particularly enjoy the social aspect of being friends with Bruce Wayne.

“Kraken’s goons have been on the warpath. They see Bruce’s support of Batman as a threat.”

“I mean, they’re not wrong.”

“No, they’re not,” Jim says, “but the ends do not justify the means. Keep your eyes peeled for a red-coded drink. That’s Bruce’s.”

Dev nods. “How many others are in on this?”

“Anyone who can legally drink, because Stephanie and Damian would both cause a mess and we need this to be subtle.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Snatch it and walk.”

“Got it,” Dev says, and slips into the crowd with a jolt of clumsiness common to Dev.

Jim doesn’t so much slip into the crowd as he parts it; the Gotham elite know better than to fuck around with him, partially because he’s friends with their crown prince and partially because of his complete and utter lack of fucks to give about their opinions of him. So he walks through their ranks like a notorious mercanary, like a prophet, his eyes snapping across the pack of servers that pace through their so-called superiors. 

He notices one--a younger man, shifty, uneasy--shoot him an anxious glance and walk in the other direction.

Straight towards Bruce

_Bingo._

WIth practiced ease, he slides across Craig DiMaggio’s polished marble floor, intercepts the server, and snags a glass of champagne that Jim can just barely see is marked with red metal inlays in the neck, rather than DiMaggio’s typical gold.

“Um--” the server starts, but Jim drains the glass in one go, places it back on the tray, and flashes him a broad smile. 

“Thanks, that was just what I needed,” he drawls, laying his Chicagoan accent on just a bit, to imply that he’s simply a bit drunk rather than a person of interest. Then he turns and darts through the crowd, toward the bathroom, intent on inhaling the antidote stowed away in his chest pocket of his tuxedo.

He reaches the bathroom, props open a stall, and vomits up whatever he’d eaten, along with the drink. The taste of something bitter still lingers on his tongue when he takes the small swig of the antidote, washing the taste away with something earthy and somehow more painful to his palette than the literal poison was. 

“Sounds pleasant,” Dick chrips through the com in his ear.

“I got the poison,” Jim manages, his voice heavy. The antidote supposedly makes you sleepy, and it’s certainly working its magic.

“Uhm.” Jason stops.

“What’ve you got, Jay?” Dev asks briskly.

“Jim,” Jason says, “I have eyes on a red-rimmed brandy glass. Bruce’s preferred poison.”

Jim feels his blood run cold. “What.”

“It’s heading toward him now. I’m too far away to intercept gracefully.”

“Fuck,” Barbara snarls; Jim is already halfway out the door of the restroom. “Fuck, my fucking chair is stuck on these goddamn floor-based speed bumps--”

“Is anyone else close enough?” Dev asks sharply.

“I got it,” Jim grouses. 

“No, you certainly do not,” Alfred rumbles, “Master James, you’ve already downed enough poison for a night--”

_There._ That’s it. Jim sees the flash of red, he’s so close, just afew more steps, he can make it--

Bruce plucks it neatly from the tray, offers the server a gracious smile--

\--and Jim snatches it neatly from his hand.

“Hey!” Bruce sounds overly put out, and Selina laughs at his side, and Jim shoots him a wry smile and walks away sipping the brandy.

“You _idiot_,” Dev hisses.

“I cannot believe you actually just did that,” Kate utters, her voice stunted with horror.

Across the room, Jim catches sight of DiMaggio, his dark eyes and scarred face burning his way with rage.

Jim smiles, sends him a wave, and collapses face-first onto the floor. Something in his face cracks--_his glasses, it’s always his glasses_\--and suddenly people are backing away and screaming like he’s the poison spilling from the shattered red-rimmed fragments spread across the floor.

“James.”

Jim looks up blearily at Dev; Bruce’s broad shoulders are visible in the darkening haze just beyond.

“James, you sodding fucking moron,” Dev snarls, “What the fuck were you thinking?!”

Jim smiles--it hurts. He feels sick and heavy and not-quite-him.

“Someone has to take the fall,” he says, and he hears someone yell for an ambulance as the world fades out.

“Dad?”

“You’re okay, Babbsie,” he manages in a last, final push against the gravity pressing on his chest.

The world goes black, then white, then still and silent.

But he falls asleep knowing that he’ll wake up; his brothers with save him one way or another.


End file.
